When Last Seen Alive (15 page)

“Forget the frame. Just get me the photograph.
All
the photographs.”

He slipped out of the booth and stood up, gestured without turning for Rafe the bodyguard to follow suit. Naturally, the big man did.

“I’ll be watching for that messenger tomorrow, Gunner,” the councilman said, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of his coat with both hands. “Please don’t let me go home empty-handed.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, too, Gil,” Gunner said. He got to his own feet as Everson began to storm out, hiding the Ruger he’d been sitting on behind his back, and called out to the security man rushing to fall in behind the councilman. “Yo, Rafe!”

The big man stopped, turned.

“Satisfy a little human curiosity, huh? Let me see the piece. Just a peek, black, come on.”

The bodyguard actually grinned, opened the left side of his coat to show Gunner the brown leather holster affixed to his belt. It was hard to tell for sure in the Deuce’s dim light, but Gunner thought the weapon in its embrace looked like a 9-millimeter SIGarms, either the P226 or -229. Neither of which, to his knowledge, could handle .45 caliber ammo.

“Wow. Very nice,” Gunner said, giving the big man the thumbs-up sign.

“Let’s go, Rafe,” Everson said, waiting.

Rafe closed up his coat, treated Gunner to another wink, then followed his employer out to the street.

ten

“W
HAT
’
S THE LATEST
?” G
UNNER ASKED
M
ATT
P
OOLE THE
first thing Friday morning.

“Not a hell of a lot. Your boy Cribbs is improving rapidly; he was able to give us a statement this morning. And that wraps it up for the good news. The bad news is, his statement ain’t worth a shit.”

“He couldn’t add anything to the description you already had of his assailant?”

“He told us the guy was wearing a blue sweatshirt and pants to go with his matching ski mask. And that the guy was indeed a brother. ‘His voice sounded black,’ he said.”

“The shooter talked to him?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention. Cribbs said he got shot because he put up a fight. He was told to get out of the car, and he didn’t.”

“Suggesting our man might’ve been just a carjacker after all.”

“Yeah. Though I remain unconvinced.”

“What about his camera?”

“The shooter took it, just like we figured. Either because he couldn’t take the car, and the camera was the next best thing, or because the camera was all he was really after in the first place. Take your pick.”

“And the weapon?”

“No weapon yet. If the shooter doesn’t still have it, he must’ve dumped it where we haven’t been able to find it.”

“You didn’t come up with anything in the car?”

“Like some prints other than Cribbs’s, you mean? Afraid not. Face it, partner, we’re stuck at square one. Our shooter was a big black guy with a forty-five auto.”

Gunner thought of Rafe the giant bodyguard again, said simply, “Yeah.”

“What about
you?
You don’t have anything to tell me this morning?”

“Not yet, Lieutenant. Maybe soon.”

“How soon is soon, Gunner? Your forty-eight hours is halfway up.”

“Yeah, Poole, I know. I’m working on it, man.”

“Okay. You do that. Now, if you’ve got no further questions for me, I’ve got a cup of java gettin’ cold here, so …”

“What do you know about the DOB, Poole?” Gunner asked, catching the detective completely unprepared for the question.

“The what?”

“The DOB. Defenders of the Bloodline. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of ’em.”

“Oh, yeah.
That
DOB. Are
they
mixed up in this?”

“No, no. This is something different. But … They really do exist, huh?”

“I don’t know. Do they? All we’ve ever seen of those clowns around here are those fuckin’ flyers they’re always puttin’ up somewhere.”

“You’re telling me you’ve never seen one, either?”

“A Defender? Not that I know of, I haven’t. And that’s usually the first thing I ask a guy, too. ‘Are you a Defender of the Bloodline?’”

Gunner could see the subject for Poole was nothing more than a joke, told him to go put his java in the microwave before hanging up the phone. Then he sat at his desk in his makeshift office, eyeing the little Ridgeback sleeping peacefully on his couch, and tried to decide which of two roads he should travel for the remainder of the day.

For as urgent as the need was for him to determine whether or not Gil Everson and/or his associate Rafe had been involved in the attack on Sly Cribbs, Gunner still felt compelled to search for the man or woman who had tried toburn him alive in Johnny Frerotte’s basement Wednesday night.

It should have been an easy choice to make. Matt Poole and the considerable resources of the LAPD were hard at work trying to solve the former crime, while no one at all, save for the Los Angeles Fire Department’s arson detail, was investigating the latter one. That Gunner was tempted to place his own attempted murder above that of another was nothing if not understandable.

And yet, in the end, he was unable to put Sly’s shooting aside for his own self-interests. Because Sly hadn’t driven into the path of those two .45 slugs by accident: Gunner had positioned him there: And the nagging guilt that came with this awareness could not be assuaged by letting someone else seek justice for him. Finding Sly’s assailant was Gunner’s responsibility, and no one else’s, just as he had told the kid’s mother yesterday, and he came back to this realization soon enough.

So he rubbed his new puppy’s head on his way out the door and left, fully intending to do what Poole had just strongly suggested he do: get on with the business of determining what connection, if any, his work for Connie Everson could have possibly had to the near execution of a seventeen-year-old boy.

After, that is, he made one little stop to visit an old friend.

He was heavily sedated and strapped down to his bed like a madman in a psycho ward, but Barber Jack Frerotte was conscious when Gunner walked into his room at Martin Luther King Memorial Hospital.

His left arm was bound to his torso in a heavy elastic sling, and a neck brace was fastened around his massive throat, making it all but impossible for him to turn his head. Gunner walked around to the foot of his bed where Frerotte couldn’t miss seeing him and showed him a warm smile.

“How’re you feeling, Jack?” he asked.

Frerotte blinked his eyes several times, not sure he could believe what he was seeing, and tried to make his mouth work. It was a long, arduous process.

“You’re a dead man,” he finally said, his voice a barely audible expulsion of air.

“Yeah. I knew you’d say that,” Gunner said. “But that’s okay. A little resentment’s only natural, I guess.”

Frerotte tried to tell him to get out, didn’t do a very good job of it. Gunner moved closer, up on the left side of the bed near the big man’s head, and said, “But look. I can’t stay long, so I’d better get to the point. I want the name of the Defender of the Bloodline who hired you to kill Thomas Selmon.”

Frerotte attempted to turn his head toward him, nearly blacked out when his injured vertebrae rebelled against the move.

“Take it easy, brother,” Gunner told him. “It’s just you and me in here. No one has to know we had this little talk but us.”

Frerotte felt around with his right hand, trying to find the electronic control pad dangling from its cord on the bed’s railing on that side, but Gunner took it, moved it out of his reach. “I saw the photograph, Jack. The one you took of Selmon’s body just before you buried it. It was taped to the bottom of the drawer in that rolltop desk in your dining room, the same drawer you keep your ledger book in.”

“You been in my
house
?” the big man managed to rasp. He almost looked more frightened than anything else.

“Yeah. I don’t suppose you’ve heard it burned down.”

Frerotte’s lips moved, but he couldn’t speak.

“I was down in the basement, looking over all those articles you had on the Selmon newspaper scandal, when somebody hit me from behind and set fire to the place. I’m afraid the crib’s a total loss, partner.”

The big man’s eyes rolled around in his head, a sure sign of incredulity. “I don’t …”

“Believe it. It’s true.” Gunner waited for a nurse passing by the open door of Frerotte’s room to disappear down the hall, then went on. “I don’t know who your friend with the match was, but I think I can guess. And I’ll bet you can, too.”

Frerotte’s eyes were blinking back tears now. He wanted nothing more than to rise from the bed and disembowel Gunner with his bare hands, but all he could do was lie there playing captive audience, instead. It had to be frustrating as hell.

“It’s all right there in your ledger book,” Gunner said. “Five grand from the DOB. Two to snatch Selmon, and three to murder him afterward. The photograph was your way of proving you’d done both.”

Frerotte didn’t say anything, just went right on blinking at the white wall in front of him.

“Now, you can lie there playing deaf, dumb, and blind if you want. That’s your prerogative. But if I were you, I’d talk to me. While you still have the chance.”

“I ain’t … tellin’ you
shit,”
Frerotte said.

“Come on, Jack. I’m giving you a chance to do yourself some good here. I’m gonna find Selmon’s body, and the man who put you up to killing him, with or without your help, but if you force me to do it without, the law’s gonna come down on you like a solid-gold Cadillac.”

“Fuck you, Gunner.” The big man tried to call for a nurse, but he couldn’t make his broken voice reach that far.

“Cooperation with the authorities always looks good to a jury, Jack. You sure that’s your final answer?”

Frerotte’s eyes rolled toward him. “You … heard me, mother … fucker!”

Gunner smiled, stepped back away from the bed. “Okay, champ. If that’s your call, that’s your call. But let me leave you with a little something to think about, huh? Your DOB homeboy tried to light me up like a fireplace log two nights ago, and I’m not happy about it. Anybody who gets in the way of my returning the favor is going to get hurt, and you just did.

“So take your time getting well. Kick it in here as long as you can. Because there’s not gonna be anything waiting for you when you get out but a cellmate in San Quentin who’s just itchin’ to see what your fat ass looks like bent over at the waist. I promise you that.”

He flipped Frerotte’s control pad onto his lap and walked out.

“Councilman Everson’s office,” a matronly voice said after the phone had rung in Gunner’s ear three times.

“I’d like to speak to the councilman, please. Is he in?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid he isn’t. He’s in Sacramento today. May I take a message for him?”

“Actually, it’s the councilman’s bodyguard I really need to speak with. Rafe …”

“Rafe Sweeney?”

“That’s it. Would he be around, by any chance?”

“No. He’s in Sacramento, too, Mr ….”

“Gunner. Aaron Gunner. When do you expect Mr. Sweeney to return?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to—”

“I don’t need an exact time. I just need to know the day of the week. Will he be gone the entire weekend, or …?”

“Mr. Sweeney and Councilman Everson should be back in their offices on Monday, Mr. Gunner. If you’d like to leave a message on Mr. Sweeney’s voice mail, I’d be happy to connect you.”

“I’d appreciate that very much. Thank you.”

Everson’s secretary transferred his call, and a taped greeting from Rafe Sweeney played on the line. Gunner doubted he’d ever heard a more succinct one.

“This is Rafe Sweeney. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back,” it said.

But Gunner declined the offer, just hung up the pay phone instead. He’d heard what he wanted to hear: Sweeney
did
sound like a black man.

And if Poole would give him just a few more days to work with, Gunner would find out Monday if the bodyguard was the right one.

Sometimes, what a person
didn’t
say was far more revealing than what they did.

And Jack Frerotte had never said he didn’t know who the hell the Defenders of the Bloodline were. In fact, he hadn’t denied a thing. Which wasn’t exactly proof that all of the allegations Gunner had made in Frerotte’s hospital room less than thirty minutes ago were on the money, but it certainly seemed to reinforce the idea.

Unfortunately, knowing the Defenders had hired Frerotte to murder Thomas Selmon and finding the actual Defender he’d been dealing with—or
any
Defender, for that matter—were two different things. The flyer Gunner had just picked off of the community announcements bulletin board over at Will Rogers Park, where Little Pete Thorogood had said Thursday night Gunner could find one, was no help in actually identifying the mysterious group at all. It was an ideological outcry, and little more, printed in plain block letters on yellow paper:

This is to Serve Notice

To the serpents among us. The liars and sinners in blackface who work in legion with the white Devil to shame our proud people. The defenders of the bloodline will purge you from the house of Africa until none of you remain. Some have already met the sword of righteousness. Many more will follow. Your hour is close at hand. Allah, the most merciful, is on our side.